


a sweet surprise

by Ellipsical



Series: Oh! how I love [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Chocolate Icing, Face-Fucking, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Modern AU, chocolate cock, chocolate kisses, they're married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 15:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10390335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellipsical/pseuds/Ellipsical
Summary: John comes home from work early. Mrs. Hudson leaves some chocolate icing lying about. Oh, how will the boys pass the time?You do not have to have read the others in this series to enjoy this one. Suffice it to say that this is my weird modern day ACD Sherlock Holmes AU. They are married, around 50ish, with a cottage in Sussex that they occasionally retreat to. Pre-retirement.Title taken from the Keats poem,I stood tip-toe upon a little hillTo see the brightness in each others’ eyes;And so they stood, fill’d with a sweet surprise,Until their tongues were loos’d in poesy.Therefore no lover did of anguish die:But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,Made silken ties, that never may be broken.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 12 hours for Round 7 of the [Come at Once](http://come-at-once.livejournal.com/) challenge on LJ. My prompt was: Knives and Forks. Of which this fic features very little. Sorry! Big thank you to GWWG for the quick read through. All mistakes are my own.

John Watson was a creature of habit.

Whether born of his time in medical school or in the army, he lived by a carefully calibrated internal clock. He woke each morning at 7am. He would invariably stumble into the shower, shave, and dress quietly for work, not wanting to wake me, the laggard still sprawled like an octopus the length and breadth of our bed, which would then be followed by coffee and a single slice of buttered toast with jam, eaten standing upright, with the Guardian spread out over the counter before him. He always started with the front page and, eyes skimming, would make his way to sport by the time he was licking the crumbs from his fingers.

He put in a full day at the surgery three days a week. Went to bed faithfully by 10:30 every night. His days off were for cases or errands or chores. He did the shopping on Tuesdays. The laundry on Thursdays. Every other Saturday, except for when we have gone down to Sussex on a whim, he met Mike Stamford for beer and billiards. Sundays were for lying in. (Sundays, let it be known, are my absolute _favorite_ day of the week)

My John, he was a man who appreciated structure.

He thrived, however, on the exception to this rule.

In other words, me.

I was his chaos, his tempest, his adrenaline fix, his high.

I was the danger, the risk, the fright, the heart-pounding legs-pumping lungs-screaming soaring roaring feeling of being gloriously, vividly alive.

He was as addicted to my maelstrom as I was to his steadiness.

So when I arrived home on a Wednesday at 12:53pm I did not expect to see his coat hanging on the peg, his scuffed brown shoes toed off beneath, and the sharp sear of silver polish mingling with the intoxicating scent of chocolate wafting from our flat. According to the laws of our universe John should have been at work.

I made my way into the kitchen and stopped short in the doorway.

Upon our kitchen table lay a jumble of silver cutlery. Knives and forks, to be specific. _Where the devil are the spoons?_ I wondered, completely baffled, as my eyes shifted from this unaccountable mess to land on my spouse who was sitting, clad in only his boxers, upon the kitchen counter, with a large crimson ceramic bowl, which I recognized as Mrs. Hudson’s, cradled in his lap.

He was grinning at me, licking something from the bowl of a spoon.

And we all know what that does to me.

My heart sped up a bit, my lips twitching, as I arched a single brow at him in question.

“Hello,” he said, ignoring my silent query, enjoying being the object of mystery for once no doubt. _Deduce it_ , his eyes sparkled at me, and, gauntlet thrown, I leaned against the door frame, folding my arms across my chest and letting my eyes rake over him.

He had been home for some time. Long enough to have had a nap. His hair was disarranged, his pale eyelashes still clumped together a bit at their corners. His skin would taste just the tiniest bit salty if I were to taste it. He always overheated when he slept. I wondered, with a tiny electric jolt, if his skin would still be warm to the touch. I found myself drifting forward, inexorably drawn to him.

“Something happened at the surgery,” I said, my eyes flicking up and down his body. “Something to make it shut down suddenly. Power outage, chemical spill…”

“Oh, I think you can do better than that,” he murmured.

I snapped my fingers together. “Gas leak.”

He shook his head, watching me with fond bemusement as I skirted the table. “Someday you are going to have to tell me how you do that.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I asked, my voice pitched just above a whisper, as I washed up in front of his knees.

He _was_ still warm to the touch it turned out. His lips especially so.

Pulling reluctantly away a moment later I glanced down into the bowl.

Interesting.

Easy.

But interesting none the less.

“You came home and found Mrs. Hudson baking,” I continued. “A cake for Mrs. Turner who’s cat was just put down.” John smiled and dipped one finger into the bowl. He lifted it and, his eyes fixed on my mouth, slid it along my bottom lip. A reward.

I closed my eyes as the chocolate melted on my tongue.

“She was waiting for the cake to cool before icing it and was polishing her silver at the table. You offered to help.”

Another swipe, wet and warm, over the bow of my upper lip this time.

“She was grateful of course. Extremely so. She loves it when her boys are solicitous.”

This time John painted his own lips and I leaned forward, breathless, heart thudding, to kiss them, suck them, until they were clean.

“She offered to bake you a cake in return. You gathered up the knives and forks, because she had already done the spoons, and brought them upstairs.”

John’s eyes are as changeable as the color of the ocean, and right then they were navy, dark with storm and heavy lidded.

He swept the chocolate over my lips once more and I bent to press my mouth to his neck, leaving behind a perfectly shaped kiss on the column of his throat.

“You were going to get to work at once, but you were tired, you were kept up much too late last night…”

“Hmm, I wonder why that could have been?” he said, eyes creasing at their corners, irresistible, and I kissed him then, I had to, it is in the rules.

His tongue was sweet and bitter at once, his thin lips soft and pliant, opening beneath my own.

“It was an important stage of the case,” I said when I pulled away. “And you know how much I rely on you once I am at the conclusion.”

His eyes fairly twinkled at me. “Yes, I know. I’m your audience. Without me who would it all be for?” he teased.

“Exactly,” I said, not taking the bait. “As I was saying, you couldn’t resist the temptation to take a short kip. You reasoned that the silver could wait and that when you woke up you would have a freshly baked cake to look forward to.”

“Go on,” John said, voice husky, holding his finger up in front of me. If he thought I was going to suck on it a bit he was sorely mistaken. I brushed my lips over the tip and then bent once more and pressed my lips to his clavicle. Leaving yet another perfectly formed kiss behind.

I did it again. This time kissing the smooth plane of his chest, just above where his chest hair began to curl and riot around his nipples. It was fainter this time, just the ghost of an imprint, but John’s breathing hitched, and I felt it shoot straight down to my cock. I wanted to mark him all over.

“You were awoken by the sound of Mrs. Hudson leaving the flat and you snuck down, in your current state of dishabille, to see if the cake was done.”

His eyes were hot on me as I smeared my freshly anointed lips over his left nipple. Flicking it first with a my tongue and then sucking it into my mouth until the chocolate was gone.

“Sherlock.” His right hand came up and gripped my hair. His heels sliding around to the backs of my thighs, digging in. I nipped him lightly and felt him shudder.

“The cake wasn’t ready though,” I whispered, John’s breath fanning out over my mouth as I straightened. The tip of his cock, dark pink and sheathed, slipped out the flies of his pants and my mouth flooded.

I leaned my elbows on the counter top. I bent my knees.

“It was cooling on the counter and there beside it…”

I paused as he rewet my lips, his other hand still cupping the back of my head, holding me close.

I pressed kisses to his fluttering stomach, his hip, and the tiny black mole peeking just above the waistband of his boxers.

I looked up at him through my lashes, tucking my fingers into his pants, and he moaned softly as I tugged. He shifted, lifting the bowl, lifting his arse, as I worked them down and off.

Christ.

He was flushed and panting. His cock standing up against his belly, hard and thick. Above it, the shape of my mouth branded all over his pinked up skin.

“Beside it,” I continued, my voice deep and resonant in the quiet room, “was the bowl of icing.”

Fingers trembling, he painted my mouth once more.

I leaned forward and let my breath rush out against the underside of his prick, wet and hot. His heels, now that his thighs were spread for me, hit the cupboards with a clang, a curse reverberating from his lips into the side of his fist.

I kissed the crown, now revealed, plump and shining. I kissed the shaft, felt his veins flex and throb against my lips. I kissed the base, just above his sac.

“You’re a," he gasped, "a bloody tease, Sherlock Holmes."

“You couldn’t wait for the cake to cool…”

John, scrambling, dipped the spoon he had been using earlier into the bowl and then drizzled the chocolate directly onto his cock. The spoon clanged against the rim as he dropped it, sliding both of his hands into my hair and guiding me forward.

I resisted. Just barely. “It smelled too good. Your mouth was watering. You just had to have a taste of it that instant.”

“God, Sherlock. Please.” He head lolling against the cupboard, his eyes hazy and unfocused.

Well, when he begs so prettily…

I leaned down and swallowed him whole.

The sensation was new and enticing. The chocolate slid against my tongue, velvety, the taste was darkly sweet. And then, as I moved back up to his head, a burst of salt from his leaking slit. I lingered there, sucking at him like a chocolate lolly, delighting in the sweet-salt-bitter taste. Above me, he groaned, one elbow bent and tucked over his face.

This time I wielded the spoon, coating him again in a thick glossy layer. I noted, as I set the spoon aside, that we didn’t have long before the icing would start to lose it’s viscosity.

I licked.

One long wet stripe from base to crown, smearing the chocolate up and down his hard cock, before taking him, thick and pulsing, between my lips once more.

I loved the heavy weight of him on my tongue. I loved how the flavor of him mixed with the chocolate and how the smell of him, musky salty sharp, burned the back of my nose as I took him in as far as I could go, his pubic hair scraping at my chin, my lungs scalded.

“God, I want to fuck that pretty mouth,” he was muttering, senseless. “I want to fill that pretty mouth with cock so badly. I want to stretch those beautiful lips out, stretch them out around a mouthful of my big cock. Oh, God.”

“Get your heels up,” I said, raspy and hoarse from him already, as I pulled off with a pop.

He dropped his elbow slowly and blinked down at me. “What?”

“Get your heels up,” I said again, straightening. My kneecaps ached a bit and I winced as John moved, shifting back so that he could get his heels up on the counter’s edge.

He looked utterly lost so I leaned in and kissed him, grounding him.

And, if I’m honest, taking a moment to adjust myself in my trousers as well.

I put the spoon in his hand and this time John did the honours. I knew he was close from the way he was breathing and the cherry red blush staining his cheeks.

I braced my hands on the edge of the counter top to either side of his butterflied thighs and bent over him.

“ _Fuuuccckkkk_.” His head hit the cupboard behind him with a dull thud.

I merely opened my mouth and let him use me.

In tiny thrusts he moved his hips, experimenting with depth. One time he went too far, too fast, and I choked, and he almost pulled all of the way out before I caught him, steadying him with a hand on his hip.

He went slower then. Building a rhythm. The chocolate smoothing the way, trickling down my throat.

“So tight,” he hissed, through clenched teeth. Rocking into me. Dragging against my tongue. I sucked, hollowing my cheeks around him as he slid. “You’re so hot and tight for me. God, you feel so good. You’re right. I couldn’t wait to have that chocolate in my mouth. I nicked it. But look at you. You’re just as greedy for the taste of my cock aren’t you? You want me to come down your throat, love? You want me to fill you up? You want me to give you what you want?”

I moaned around him in response, rubbing at his hip, and I felt him shiver and then go tense. I bent lower, taking him deeper, and I felt him flood me, coming thick and hot down the back of my throat.

I eased back off of him and stepped away, undoing my belt and trousers, pushing them down.

John was catching his breath when I looked back up, collapsed, slouching against the cupboards, legs dangling, his cock just beginning to soften. Chocolate kisses decorated his blushing torso and I bent to suck the one from his throat before stepping back again. I liked seeing the impression of my mouth on him. _Maybe_ , I wondered dizzily, my brain pounding and fuzzy, _he would consider getting it tattooed?_

“Stand up,” I croaked, desperate. My cock stood out from my body, dark red and straining towards him, and I stroked it a few times as John slid down and off. “Turn around,” I said, the words scraping up my raw throat.

John turned and leaned over, elbows resting on the counter top, presenting himself to me.

I took a moment to admire his firm, round arse before I moved up close behind him and took up the spoon once more.

“Spread your legs,” I said, though it came out much more like a growl than I had intended.

When he obeyed I slicked up the inside of his thighs with the chocolate and then, urging his legs back together, I slid into the tight slippery space between.

“Oh, my god,” I said, the breath knocked from my lungs, my head dropping down to rest between his shoulder blades.

“Mmm, good?” John hummed, pressing back into me, his whole body molding against mine, languid and soft and warm.

“So good,” I said, turning to rest my cheek against the smooth skin of his shoulder. He smelled of sex and sweat and sugar and I grew heady from it, breathing it in in deep insatiable mouthfuls.

“You felt so good,” John murmured, flexing his thighs. Tightening and releasing me in a slow lazy rhythm. It made white stars explode behind my eyelids. “I want to make you feel good, Sherlock. Come on then, fuck me.”

There in the kitchen, in the middle of a perfectly ordinary Wednesday afternoon, when, according to the laws that dictated our universe, John was supposed to be at work, I bent my knees, and with his hips bruising beneath my hands, his arse slapping against my stomach, the chocolate squelching between his legs, I began to move. I could feel the slick hard seam of his perineum rubbing against the top of my cock, providing delicious friction. The tight circle of his inner thighs squeezed me like a fist; I fucked into it hard and quick. And each time I pushed in all the way, my head popped out the other side, brushing against the underside of John’s bollocks, his hair coarse and rough against the aching, leaking head of my cock.

I took hold of his right shoulder, my other hand dug into his left hip. He bowed his back, arse tipped up, I could just see the shadow of his hole between his plump cheeks, tempting me. John braced himself against the counter as I fucked his thighs, his arse bouncing against me, absorbing the force of my thrusts. My orgasm built in the backs of my legs, surging to my navel, and then bursting hot up my spine in a liquid rush that churned out to my extremities, tingling in my fingers. I shouted and curled my toes against the lino, coming all over the cupboards.  
  
We ended up—after a long shower and a quick wipe-down of the kitchen—sitting together at the table, polishing the silver together.

Wednesdays are usually for curry and telly. John’s feet in my lap or my head in his.

Unless of course the exception to the rule, me, throws all of that widdershins and we are busy chasing a criminal through Brixton and laughing together later over tepid cups of tea poured at the Yard while Lestrade scratches his head and asks, just what is he supposed to do now?

The hurricane and his rock.

“You should come home early from work more often,” I said, picking up a knife and drawing it between the folds of my dishcloth.

John, smiling, examining a fork under the light, “Maybe we should ask Mrs. Hudson for her icing recipe.”

“I—“ I started to agree, but didn’t have time to finish when, from the bottom of the stairwell, we heard:

“Boys, what have you done with my icing?”

  


End file.
